Dragon of the South Sea: The Slayer's Son
by Templedogg
Summary: Kipa is the son of a Slayer from the South Pacific. He and his watcher, a Japanese martial arts master named Hokusai, are called to a special Council gathering at Sunnydale. Will this mission hold clues to the mysterious murder of Kipa's mother?
1. Chapter 1

**Dragon of the South Sea: The Slayer's Son**

**Chapter 1**

They named him Quipuha when he was born, but took to calling him Kipa for short. And since it was little Kipa who had once toddled off in a soiled diaper and went missing for an entire afternoon, and was found at sunset munching on star fruit that he had harvested himself by throwing sticks up into a tree; who at 5 years old was discovered sitting at the foot of his grandmother's sleeping mat, the machete in his hands dripping with gore, surrounded by pieces of the constrictor that had invaded their hut; since it was their little Kipa who had done these things, Kipa is the name that stuck with him into manhood.

Not that there was much to be surprised about. His mother was Keilani, the Slayer, after all; everyone in the village knew that. Such things cannot and need not be kept secret in these small, isolated pockets of the world. The people of this island chain had not blinded themselves to the existence of hellmouths and the creatures that issued from them; they had not hidden themselves beneath shells of electric and neon light, had not insulated their lives within layers of technology and concrete. Here, the Slayer was neither shunned nor ridiculed as a freak or an oddity. She was the Mother Protector of the innocent and the sacred, and the people loved and revered her, as they had her great-aunt before her, and the women who had served before them both, flowing back through time along this branch of the great Slayer lineage.

This branch, which through treachery and twisted fortune had been violently cut off…

It was Kipa who, seven years ago, had found his mother's mangled body tossed up on the coral reef at low tide, like a wicked child's discarded doll. It was Kipa who had sent Keilani's spirit to join her ancestors in the way of their people, rising from the funeral pyre on a column of golden smoke. And it was Kipa who had taken up Keilani's sword—"Tomoe"—a wondrous weapon fashioned of flashing steel and dragon-carved ivory; a gift from her watcher and trainer, Hokusai, who had come from the land still known as Nippon in this part of the world, but which the modern world called Japan. And, finally, it was Kipa who had tracked down Keilani's betrayers and split each of them in two from head to tail, those three hag sisters—water demons whose ancestors were first sighted by human mariners of ancient times and given the misleading label of "mermaid."

But how, one may ask, does a demon become a Slayer's betrayer? When that demon is family, of course. The hags had been Keilani's sisters-in-law; the villagers knew this as well as they knew her legacy. They had always, albeit grudgingly, been willing to accept the fact that Keilani had fallen in love with the water demon, Gregor, and taken him as her husband. They had shaken their heads and prayed to the gods, but such things were not unheard of in the chronicles of the Slayers. Even in this day and age, tales had traveled the trade winds from that strange land of the Americas, tales of a Slayer from a village with the comically incongruous name of "Sunnydale," who had consorted with, of all beings, a vampire.

Yes, Kipa had avenged his mother's murder, but that had only been the beginning. He had a hundred questions that needed answering, one of them being—where was his father? A water demon, by nature, was always on the move, wandering the world's watery currents on deep, dark business unfathomable to us surface beings. Gregor would go off for weeks, even months at a time. Whenever he resurfaced, allowing his powerful tail to morph into those awkward land-legs, he would stay long enough to romance Keilani, and make her laugh in that way only he knew how, and school Kipa on the finer points of free-diving and the wielding of hook and trident.

Where was his father? This question never left Kipa's mind for long. It lingered like the salt mist on his tongue as he raced in his sailboat along the silver-tipped waves on one of his solitary moonlit rides. It pulsed beneath his skin like the blood beating through his veins as he padded silently through the jungle, keeping his mother's patrols until a new Slayer was born to the village. It echoed in his ears whenever he roared his battle cry and drew Tomoe from its scabbard to dispatch a vampire, or cave crawler, or river serpent, or any of the myriad denizens of darkness who preyed on humans.

And the question was throbbing dully like a bruise in the back of his skull even now, as he scrambled up the mountain near his village, towards the training compound located at its summit, where Master Hokusai waited to administer this day's combat lesson. Master Hokusai: a rich mixture of emotions always accompanied the thought of this simple, deadly little man from the Land of the Rising Sun—fondness, dread, admiration, sorrow, pain—but mostly, love. Hokusai had practically raised Keilani from girlhood, had loved her like a daughter even as he forged her through tortuous daily sessions into a living weapon. On the sunrise following her funeral, Kipa had found the old man kneeling in his garden, preparing to plunge a shortsword into his own belly in the act of seppuku, ritual suicide. It was Kipa who reminded Hokusai that he still had duties to fulfill; that Kipa needed a master to train with in order to carry on his mother's work, until the mystery of her murder could be solved, until a new Slayer could be found.

Kipa was sure to wash his feet before entering the dojo, where he found the master kneeling in the posture of meditation. Kipa knelt at the edge of the training mat and bowed his head to the ground. He then began walking to the center of the mat, already wincing inwardly at the tumbles and strikes and joint locks that the old man would be putting him through in a minute. However, when the master finally stood, he fixed his inscrutable eyes upon his pupil and declared, "I am going to make us some tea. Come." Half an hour later, as they sat in the tea room gazing out over the garden and the sunset beyond, the Master began to speak.

"When I was a young man," intoned Hokusai, gazing out over the reddening horizon as if that distant memory were drifting somewhere beyond the ocean's edge, "I was invited to tea by my aunt, who happened to be the village seer. As she and I sat and looked out towards a sunset not unlike this one, she uttered my destiny like a spider weaving its web. She said my path lay to the south, where I would find a skinny little worm of a girl and turn her into a dragon, a scourge of demons, a Slayer." A corner of the master's mouth twisted, whether in a smile or in a grimace of pain, Kipa could not be sure. "My aunt also predicted that my path would end in the Land of the Sun. At the time, I assumed she meant my homeland, Nippon." Now the Master was smiling, but it was a bitter, sarcastic smile; the smile of a man who has figured out that the gods have a sense of humor, but that their idea of funny doesn't exactly match ours.

The Master turned to Kipa and asked, "Have you ever flown in an aeroplane?"

"No, Master."

"Then you are in for a new experience. We are called…" Kipa opened his mouth to protest, but the Master raised a finger to silence him, and Kipa had long ago learned the painful consequences of showing either impatience or discourtesy in the Master's presence.

"We are called," continued Hokusai, "to a special gathering of Slayers and their Watchers." The old man focused his eyes on Kipa, who tried not to squirm under their intense predatory gaze. "Your mother is dead, yes. But you have been an adequate pupil, and the nature of this emergency is such that the Council cannot be picky about the resources available to it." Kipa tried not to let the pride that was welling up in his breast show outwardly. To be labeled "adequate" by Master Hokusai was high praise to anyone who knew him; to be considered worthy enough to accompany the old man on an errand of this importance was an honor worth dying for.

Kipa swallowed, cleared his throat, and asked, "Where are we bound, Master?"

"We are going to the Land of the Sun," replied the old man, again allowing that strangely twisted smile to distort the corner of his mouth.

"We are going to Sunnydale."


	2. Chapter 2

**Dragon of the South Sea: The Slayer's Son**

**Chapter 2**

There was no airstrip on Kipa's home island, of course, so he and Hokusai set sail at sunrise on Kipa's boat, traveling all day to reach a neighboring island that had a small airstrip. Sixty seconds into the very first plane ride of his life, Kipa decided that he did not like flying. He expressed this decision by vomiting into a small waxed paper bag that the pilot was considerate enough to have on hand. After a couple of hours, they arrived at the Phillipines, and things got even worse. To Kipa's dismay, the capital city had an airport, with an even bigger airstrip, and much larger planes. Kipa was not fooled by their shininess, or their fortress-like appearance, or the mighty roar of their engines. As far as he was concerned, human beings had no business getting any farther off the ground than they could jump or climb.

Sitting ramrod straight in his aisle seat, unconsciously pressing his body as firmly as possible into the seat cushion, as if becoming one with the furniture could somehow allay his terror, Kipa risked a sidewise glance at Master Hokusai, who occupied the window seat to his left. The expression on Hokusai's face was that of a small child's upon opening his very first Christmas present, all wonder and delight. The Master was actually humming an obscure tune and tapping his feet to the rhythm—something Kipa had never seen him do before.

"Are you actually enjoying this horror show?" croaked Kipa.

The master, regarding his pupil's light green coloring with a mixture of mirth and pity, replied in a calm, almost singsong tone, "It has been many, many years since I've had the opportunity to ride an aeroplane. Miraculous machines! Truly miraculous!" And he went back to watching the vast ocean surface flash 30,000 feet beneath them.

Several hours later, master and pupil were sitting in a taxi, zooming along the California coast from Los Angeles to Sunnydale. Staring out the window at the shoreline, Kipa was actually trying to calculate how many weeks it would take, and how much food and equipment he would need, in order to make the return trip entirely by boat. He was so silently and earnestly caught up in his calculations that Master Hokusai thought he was just captivated by the passing scenery. When Kipa eventually arrived at the troubling question of where he would be able to get his hands on, or even afford, a sailboat for that return trip, his thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a tap on the shoulder from Hokusai. They had arrived in Sunnydale.

To be more accurate, they had arrived at a vast, moonlike crater that used to be Sunnydale. As the taxi sped off on its way back to L.A., Kipa and Hokusai stepped to the lip of the crater and stared down towards the bottom, which appeared to lie at least a thousand feet below. It was already becoming difficult to discern as the sun began to set; by nightfall the crater would seem bottomless. They raised their eyes to look across the chasm, and discovered that they couldn't see the opposite wall in the waning light. It shouldn't have been a surprise to either of them; the news had been broadcast all around the world years ago, of the freak earthquake that had swallowed up an entire town. Slayers and watchers knew the real story, of course, but the rest of the civilized world needed a rational cause for this most irrational catastrophe, so earthquake became the official explanation. It shouldn't have been a surprise, and yet, the indescribable bleakness of the scene struck them like a hammer between the eyes. The dust had long settled, but the silence itself resonated like a scream that had detached itself from the past and continued to ring in the ears of those who gathered here.

As they gazed left and right along the crater's rim, they could see lights and campfires, and make out the distant hums of generators and portable air conditioning units. Universities and corporations from all over the world had sent teams of scientists and researchers to investigate the phenomenon, so most of the lights they saw were coming from temporary camps consisting of trailers and RVs arranged in tight circles like the Conestoga wagon trains of America's frontier era. There were also the not-so-official camps—groups consisting of religious pilgrims, new age seekers, and the just plain curious. Sunnydale was attracting more scrutiny now than it ever had as the host of an active, parasitic hellmouth.

"Konichiwa, Hokusai Sensei," a strong, steady voice called out from the growing darkness. Kipa jumped, partly surprised at not having heard or sensed the intruder's approach. Hokusai, however, simply smiled and turned smoothly to face the figure, whose features were slowly coming into view as he neared the pair. It was a man, fortyish, with a firm, square jaw and a full head of dark hair. He wore spectacles that gave him the bookish appearance of a librarian, but his face was creased with lines that bespoke years of trial, struggle, heartbreak, and fatigue; it was a face not unlike Master Hokusai's, the face of a warrior.

"Giles-San," replied Hokusai as his smiled widened. This man named Giles then stopped at arm's length and bowed deeply, but Hokusai shook his head and surprised Kipa for the second time since their journey had begun. The old man took a step forward and embraced Giles fully; such men as Hokusai did this only with the most intimate of friends. Giles returned the hug warmly, and then the two old friends stood apart and regarded one another, their eyes speaking silent volumes of adventures shared and battles fought long ago.

"It's good to see you after so many years," said Giles, "and my strength and courage are renewed with the knowledge that you will be here to lend your wisdom and skill in this time of need." Hokusai bowed humbly at this compliment, then turned and raised his arm in Kipa's direction.

"This is my Slayer, Kipa, son of Keilani." Giles regarded Kipa without blinking or otherwise betraying any surprise at the fact that Kipa was male.

"I am honored, Giles-San," Kipa said with a deep bow.

"The honor is mine, young master. Your mother was a great and formidable warrior." Giles showed a good deal of courtesy by not remarking the blush of pride that crept up behind Kipa's ears. He continued, "I wish we could more properly get to know each other, but the crisis which has precipitated this gathering does not leave us much time. Please follow me to our camp." With that, Giles picked up a gas lantern that he had left on the ground a few steps behind him, switched it on, and led the way to the nearest of the makeshift trailer camps.

Upon arriving, Kipa saw nearly two dozen figures gathered around the central campfire. Giles led the introductions; There were six Slayers from around the world—young women from Madrid, Haiti, Egypt, Norway, Beijing, and New York City. Each was accompanied by her Watcher and one or more close friends. The latter varied greatly in age and appearance, but they all shared a common aura; they appeared capable and experienced—not as powerful or deadly as their slayer friends, but tempered and grim, as if they had fought alongside each other for years.

As introductions were made, one could notice two distinct currents of social activity taking place: The watchers greeted each other with familiarity and warmth, old soldiers united by shared stories and common scars; the slayers and their companions shook hands or bowed to each other tentatively and warily, young wolves on unfamiliar terrain, unused to sharing leadership, sizing each other up.

Kipa, feeling out of place as the only male slayer, and being unaccompanied by friends or retainers, comported himself with courtesy, but remained distant and quiet. He was also surreptitiously searching for the missing piece in this puzzle. Where was that most famous—or infamous—of slayers, the one who had consorted with not one, but two, vampires? Where was the slayer who, with the help of a white witch, had mystically distributed her powers among several companion slayers-to-be, enabling them to snatch victory from what had seemed certain defeat? Where was the slayer who, through that act of self-sacrifice, was almost single-handedly responsible for the canyon-sized crater at whose edge they now camped? Where was this Buffy?

As if in answer to his unspoken question, the door of one of the nearby trailers opened, and two figures emerged. The first was a petite blonde with a dancer's build, who at first glance looked like one of those cheerleaders one sees on prime time TV shows about poor little melodramatic rich kids; but upon closer inspection, Kipa noticed that she moved from the hips, like a fighter, gathering her strength from the Earth's core. And her eyes—her eyes were impossible to hold in a direct gaze for more than a few seconds. They pierced you on the spot, first drawing you in with their cool blue depth and sad beauty, then chilling you with the realization that they were actually windows, and that something was staring at you from behind them. You weren't sure what it was, but you sensed that it was forbidden to mortal eyes. _This_, thought Kipa, _this could be none other than the one called Buffy, the Slayer of Sunnydale_.

And yet, as magnificent as she appeared at that moment, Buffy held Kipa's attention for just those few seconds of recognition and professional awe. Someone else was exiting the trailer just behind Buffy, and several seconds passed before Kipa realized that he was holding his breath, and that his mouth was hanging open like that of a fish lying on a bed of chipped ice in a market stall.

Buffy's companion had fair skin, a complexion like liquid moonlight. Her eyes flashed in the firelight like emeralds. No, they were more like the luminescence that Kipa sometimes witnessed when he sailed at night, wild colors that flashed in the depths like underwater lightning. She moved differently than Buffy, in a floating or gliding motion, as if she were made of gossamer—as if gravity itself, stunned by her beauty, would at any moment relinquish its grip on her, letting her float off to the clouds that surely might have been her true home. Most of all, however, Kipa was captivated by her hair, which in the alternating rays of firelight and moonlight took on the hues of fresh blood or ancient wine. Kipa had once watched his father blow through a conch shell and summon a sea serpent from the trenches. The serpent had displayed a gorgeous mane of fiery red hair that seemed to spark electrically as the creature breached the ocean surface. This young woman's hair seemed to be just as alive with electricity, and just as deadly.

Kipa suddenly winced as a sharp pinching sensation coursed through his upper arm. He glanced to his side and realized that Master Hokusai had gripped his arm—not violently, but firmly enough to awaken Kipa from his momentary paralysis. Someone was saying something, but the words weren't registering in Kipa's consciousness. He blinked and shook his head slightly, as if clearing a film of water from his eyes and ears, and then realized to his utter delight—and his utter terror—that Buffy's companion was introducing herself to him.

"Hi!" she said in a voice like the singing of the wind chimes that hung from the eaves of Master Hokusai's front porch.

"My name's Willow. What's yours?"


End file.
